


meet me on jupiter

by Tyranno



Category: Star Trek: Discovery
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, M/M, Space Husbands, Trans Male Character, mushroom man, t4t relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:08:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28903890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyranno/pseuds/Tyranno
Summary: The digital clock blinks 1:45 AM.Paul Stamets is awake. He has 5 hours 15 minutes left.
Relationships: Hugh Culber/Paul Stamets
Comments: 2
Kudos: 12





	meet me on jupiter

The digital clock blinks 1:45 AM.

Paul Stamets is awake. He has 5 hours 15 minutes until he is due to be in the Bay Hollow Aerodrome dressed in the neatly pressed uniform which now hangs over the back of the chair like a ghost in the dark room. Their bedroom has been picked clean of personals, and the floor stretches uninterrupted. Stamets’ lab technician took the houseplants back to Kentucky with her a week ago, there was a whitish square on the wall where the reprint of the Gustav Klimt “The Maiden” painting used to hang, and Hugh’s beloved one-eyed cat had been adopted by their neighbour. Stamets’ eyes are drawn back to the clock. He has 5 hours and 10 minutes left.

In 2078 the Triyuga Dam in West Bengal, India, collapsed, killing 100,000 people in under twenty minutes. Six or seven books remain on the shared bookshelf which did not find a new home, and in the event of their death might be donated but will probably be mulched and recycled. In 2130 the Carlworth Dam in Florida broke, washing the city of New St. Petersburg into the sea and claiming around 260,000 lives. They were fishing body parts from the black mud for weeks after, using tricorders to scan for unique human DNA signatures in the silt. Stamets had seen the pictures of the great wall of stone, crushed by the weight of the water, cement cleaved in two like an axe blow.

Stamets is not an engineer. Most of the clothes in their cabinets are all gone, there is no point in holding on to them. In all likelihood, they will return after four or five years, and by then the clothes will be out of fashion and moth-eaten. If they return. Stamets looks up at the star map which stretched out above them, showing the milky way like the dappling on a glossy black horse. He will be up there soon, past there, in some nameless echoless stretch of open, empty space. Not just him, either, Hugh will be there too. Stamets has no other family but him. To so much as step on the new star ship, he puts his whole world in the hold of whichever genius engineer scrawled on their data pad for five years until they received a degree. They call Stamets a genius too, and he still put salt in his coffee every once in a while.

San Francisco night beams through their windows, muffled by the white chiffon curtains. It is still too early for dawn, but the night winks on, the low buzzing hover planes ducking in and out of the skyscrapers like nesting birds looking to land and the asshole kids shooting fireworks against the glossy glass of the Flamenco building across the courtyard. Hugh has cleaned the carpets so often in the last week that the carpet fibres have an almost crispy texture and smell strongly of mint. Stamets can smell it, even lying under the covers and staring at the ceiling. Culber himself is lying next to him, breathing softly and evenly. He is very warm. Stamets himself has poor circulation, cold fingers and toes, cheeks which go bright red at the first hint of a California winter.

Culber draws in a deep breath, and Stamets wonders if he’s about to turn over. Hugh is always sighing in his sleep, as if his dreams are exasperating. Stamets himself rarely dreams.

“You’re thinking way too loudly,” Culber says. His tired voice is husky. He doesn’t open his eyes.

Stamets blinks at him, lifting his head from the pillow. He glances at the clock. 2:05 AM. Partially by instinct, he creeps closer, pushing a hand over Culber’s chest and resting his head on his shoulder. Culber is, has always been, a comfort like no other. There is a solidity to him, Stamets can set his anchor by him, orient himself true north by Culber’s direction. Stamets is not sure who he would be without the man. There is no such thing as north in space.

“Sorry,” Stamets says, and his own voice croaks.

There is a rasp under his wrist as he brushes Culber’s top surgery scar. Culber has explained it a few times, but Stamets is not sure he ever properly understood the logic behind keeping the scar. Culber said he wanted to keep it as a reminder to himself, but Stamets is not sure that it is something he can forget. Stamets’ own top scar has been long erased, the skin blending flawlessly into skin, as smooth as an eggshell.

Culber puts an arm around him. “Don’t be. Are you thirsty?”

More than anything, Stamets does not want to disturb him. He’s heard enough lectures on the importance of sleeping for at least eight hours to last him a lifetime. The night is a deep violet outside their window, the light pollution chasing even the moon from the sky most nights.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Culber’s eyes open finally. His eyes are deep black, and warm.

“We should sleep,” Stamets says.

“That doesn’t sound like you,” Culber smiles.

Stamets gives him a flat look, “You’re kidding. We have a big meeting in a few hours.”

“In a few hours we have to stand while some Captain makes the same speech every captain makes about how important our work is, something-something war something-something Klingons,” Culber sits up, a ghost of cool air flowing over Stamets’ skin, “Besides, we have two hours before we would have to get up anyway. Polyphasic sleep is—”

“Not good for you, so I hear,” Stamets swings his legs around the edge of the bed. “I edited that paper of yours, if you remember.”

Culber shoots him a look which is supposed to be offended, but there is a spark of amusement in his eyes. He pulls on his robe and pads to the kitchen, Stamets slinking after him. The light beams on above them. It is strange how foreign their apartment feels now, sitting empty and cold, the yellow lights feel almost clinical. Stamets ducks on instinct, to avoid a cupboard that they unscrewed and removed two weeks ago.

The proprietor of their building already disabled and removed the replicator. They were hellish pieces of equipment, prone to malfunctioning and turning itself on in abandoned apartments and replicating three kilos of dead fish for their occupant to return to after two years on ship leave. Still, seeing the replicator nook empty and dark, like a missing tooth, was upsetting.

Culber sets the kettle on to boil and retrieves their remaining two mugs. He picks up a shiny packet of something which looks cheap and yellow. “It’s yellow candy cakoa,” Culber says when he sees Stamets looking. The small packet as a cartoon of a blue child holding a bowl of gloopy yellow soup. “It’s Andorian. My phD student gave it to me.”

“Does it taste horrible?” Stamets asks, frowning.

“Probably,” Culber says, a smile gracing his features.

Stamets laughs. The kettle boils and Culber pours out two cups. Steam swirls around his hands, carrying the scent of synthetic sugar. “So,” Culber sets the kettle back down on the ring, “Which ship is ours? Glenn or the Discovery?”

“Discovery,” Stamets says, taking the suspicious yellow drink as Culber passes it to him. It was too hot to drink, so he just holds it, smelling the chemicals. Secretly, Stamets thinks the student owes Culber more than one corner-store instant drink, after all the work Culber put into sorting out her coursework. But Culber had seemed very happy to have it. “Staal send me the personnel files yesterday.”

“Well then,” Culber extends his steaming mug. “To Discovery.”

“To Discovery.” Stamets toasts mugs with him. He wrinkles his nose and takes a gulp of the sulphurous candy drink. The fruity bubbles hit the back of his throat like a drag of tobacco smoke. It tastes horrid.


End file.
